The Right Word
by Nishy
Summary: Glorfindel writes the tale of his first life, and begins to come to terms with his death. Slash, WIP.
1. Arrivals

**Title**: The Right Word  
**Rating**: G this chapter; may be PG to R in future  
**Warnings**: Slash. Future mentions of twincest.  
**Pairings**: Glorfindel/Legolas, Glorfindel/Ecthelion, Elladan/Elrohir, mentions of others  
**Summary**: Glorfindel writes the tale of his first life, and begins to come to terms with his death.  
**Disclaimer**: All characters contained herein belong to Tolkien's estate and not to me. I am merely borrowing them, and no profit is made.  
**Author's Notes**: This is a gift-in-progress for Aqui and her much-loved Legolas.

----

_"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word." Catherine Drinker Bowen_

----

**Part I: Goldtress**

Glorfindel relished the gentle _snick_ of the latch as he closed his door behind him, resting his cheek against the wood for a moment, comforted by the solidity of it. He would not be bothered tonight, if he were lucky, not tonight. It was highly unlikely that a domestic emergency would come up, and Elrond had long since stopped trying to draw him out to join the evening's entertainment in the Hall of Fire.

_(because he would never, never speak that story again)_

At last he moved away from the door, lighting a candle beside his chair to read by. Even so, the dim space would have strained mortal eyes; shadows swallowed up its usually airy corners, giving the impression of a cramped and small chamber. The architect would likely have been horrified to see how his carefully-planned open space was being abused, but Glorfindel liked the crawling dark. He liked it even better when the candle had been extinguished; it flooded the room, drowning him sweetly in those long hours before sleep.

Council had raged long today, and Inglor had been even more impossible than was his usual. Of course, Glorfindel could admit to being overly involved in a simple discussion of city waterworks, but it had been the least trivial matter they'd dealt with for days and he'd been dying for the council to make a useful decision about _something_. Inglor's ignorance of the needs of a city this size only served to heighten his frustration with the whole season's worth of meetings.

Summer was winding to a close, and for that at least he was thankful. Autumn he almost enjoyed, crisp and chill and full of flavour; when councils began to be in earnest again, to dispatch with important matters before winter required their full attention. He would be relieved to stop arguing over such petty concerns as what sort of stone was best to repave city paths, which invariably summarised the majority of councils held between June and early September each year.

Glorfindel crawled into his chair in front of the hearth, laying an open manuscript across his knees and reaching behind him for the quill and inkwell on the table. He was tall even by elven standards, lean and well-shaped, but he had a way of curling up sideways in the chair that made him look small and angular, knees and elbows sticking out oddly. His neck would hurt when he went to bed from bending low over his book; and if elvish faces grew lined as mortal ones did, with much use, his thoughtful frown would have been deeply drawn.

The book would have to be recopied, if he ever chanced to make a proper tale of it. There were months' worth of scribbled notes and ambitious beginnings left off mid-sentence, pages and pages of writing--some angry and fast, some done in a slow heavy hand. Some smeared and blotted where the book was snapped shut as soon as quill left paper. Much crossed out, bits of it so heavily even Glorfindel could no longer tell what had been there--not that there was anyone but Glorfindel to look.

He twisted around after a moment, stretching across the chair arm to reach the bottle and glass that resided, of habit, beside the inkwell. He filled the glass distractedly, half his attention already back on the pages before him, rereading what he had written; doing his level best to avoid reading what he hadn't written, for the same reasons that he hadn't written it in the first place. The bite of the alcohol soothed, more pleasant in its familiarity than these memories that never quite felt like his own, no matter how vividly they seared him.

What he needed, really, was a place to start. It was quite different to write an account than to tell it by the fireside, and certainly they had always told him where to begin back when he gave in to their ceaseless wish for the tale. He did not think it quite fitting to take the same sensationalistic approach in this record. After all, its purpose was hardly to give sheltered gossips a dose of vicarious adventure. He wished--needed--to capture that time as it had truly been, before the world changed too much and it was lost forever.

There was the founding of Gondolin, of course--the guidance and blessing of Ulmo, the glow of the rising towers and walls, the inimitable beauty of a well-kept secret. Or the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the subsequent coronation of Turgon, a far sadder occasion than anyone would have guessed. The tale of Eol and Aredhel, that bred and tainted Maeglin; the slight of Idril that incensed him--perhaps that. Or Idril's wedding, or the birth of her son. All might have begun his record in a more or less satisfactory manner. But somehow he did not think the story stretched that far; or at least that if it did, he would be presuming much to try and chronicle it.

Maybe, then, best to start with the only element of the whole affair that was truly his own--himself. He could edit it out in the recopying, but presumably beginning with an explanation--an introduction--would help him to get a feel for the narrative. After all, that was who he _really_ was. Not Glorfindel the reborn, biding a forced childhood in a place that was and wasn't home; not Glorfindel the soldier, commanding Imladris' troops at Fornost; not Glorfindel the seneschal, serving under Elrond son of Eärendil.

He knew who he was, within his own mind. He projected himself now as he had been then: Goldtress of the Los'loriol, Golden Glorfindel who now ruled a house (he firmly believed) not so much dead as sleeping. When all was said and done, that was who he would be; in the meantime he did not plan on assuming some other identity, whatever his circumstances.

He put his name at the top of a new page, much the way he made Elrond's sons write names on their coursework so that he could tell who had done what, their handwriting too much alike for distinction. He let his quill hover over the first line as if he were just about to begin writing, but even with such an easy start he was not entirely sure what to say. He knew that they didn't understand, the ones who asked him for the tale, and it had to be explained. Elrond might have understood, even though he had not yet been born when Glorfindel was Glorfindel; if only because he understood what it was like to be changed after loss. It was possible he had not been entirely himself since the departure of Celebrían. Still, his seneschal--temporary, of course, only temporary--could not bring himself to admit what he was trying to accomplish, much less ask Elrond for help.

Glorfindel's glass was empty before nib touched paper again, and still the soft scratching was slow as he considered his words.

_One must not make the mistake of believing the two Glorfindels are one and the same. This is the tale of the former, he of Gondolin; and has no bearing upon the latter, he of Imladris, save as its historian and scribe._

Sometimes, he thought, one must be allegorical to convey things properly to those who would not otherwise understand.

A muffled knocking broke his concentration, not that it had been particularly durable to start with, as he finished the second sentence. "Busy!" he growled out without glancing up, then as an afterthought-- "Erestor can deal with it if it's important."

"I most certainly cannot," Erestor's voice came from the other side of the door, sounding distinctly put out. "His Royal Highness of Mirkwood has decided to grace us with his presence, and I'm a bit occupied with arranging a feast on no notice. Guestrooms and entertainment don't just present themselves on their own, so I'd recommend you get to it."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes skyward, pushing his empty glass aside to set down the book, open still to dry the ink. A week early, but of course. The backwards king of the backwoods kingdom could not settle for merely making a grand entrance. He had to make it clear and obvious that they were all scrambling at his convenience. Still, he couldn't quite muster the level of annoyance Erestor apparently felt, only a resigned sort of displeasure.

Erestor gave him a quick briefing as they walked. "They've just arrived, so you've a few minutes to get things in order without causing any serious offence by keeping them waiting. King Thranduil, his son, two counsellors and ten others. They should be in the Hall now. I left them with Lindir."

That put a bit of speed into Glorfindel's step. Lindir was clever enough in his way, but sometimes he didn't seem to have the sense he was born with. He could not be entirely trusted not to say something, in his irreverent way, to offend their visitors. Of course, he would not have meant anything by it, but harm unintended was not harm undone. Best to err on the side of caution, and remove Thranduil's party from his vicinity as soon as possible.

Glorfindel ducked into the office he and Erestor shared, snatching up a ledger off his desk and flipping to the back, where he kept record of guests and rooms. The Last Homely House tended to have a consistent flow of comings and goings, and Elrond had likely not turned anyone away from his door since before Imladris was built, when he and Gil-galad had guessed the nature of Annatar.

There were available chambers in plenty, and many of acceptable size and furnishing for even a king--not that the Silvan lord with an exaggerated view of his own importance ought really to count as such. They were, however, dotted here and there; it was obvious the party couldn't all be quartered together, of which his Highness would surely complain. Well, of course the Prince would have to be quartered with his father--whether he was old enough to require his own chamber, Glorfindel didn't know, but he marked off a set of rooms side-by-side in the west corridor for their use in case. The counsellors could share, and so be placed at the end of the same corridor. As for the rest--well, they could either be packed together just around the corner from the counsellors, or spread out in smaller chambers on the lower floor, depending upon how close at hand Thranduil desired to have them.

Satisfied with his arrangements, he tucked the ledger beneath his arm and headed for the Hall of Fire. At this time of evening it was more a crossroads than a gathering place; dinner had not been eaten yet (and likely would be late, as Erestor hurried to make it appropriate for the guests), and the songs and tales here were for many only a dessert of sorts. The king's party was easy to spot, shifting uneasily in the least comfortable seats to be had in the entire hall while Lindir chatted away cheerfully. The expression of distaste on Thranduil's features amused in a small, mean way, but Glorfindel supposed it wouldn't do to keep him waiting.

The first time he'd been in Thranduil's presence, he had found the king profoundly attractive, but now he could see none of what had struck him then. It was not that he appeared any different; it was simply that somehow, as Glorfindel's perception of him changed, those features had lost their previous appeal. He supposed, somewhat wearily, that there was a danger of being remembered, with his Vanya hair--though on the other hand, the king was probably no more interested in playing out the awkward small talk of professional acquaintances than he was, thank Eru for small mercies.

He gave the rest of the party a quick looking-over as he crossed to them. The two counsellors were marked by overly nice clothing and jewels at their throats, as if they'd come from a ball rather than a journey. Despite the vanity, they seemed approachable enough, talking lowly and laughing occasionally. With luck Glorfindel could make allies of them in ensuring the visit went smoothly. The attendants were largely uninteresting, resting more or less quietly from the trip. It took a minute to spot the prince, who sat almost in the shadow of his father; silent but smiling, he listened to Lindir with apparent interest. He was clearly old enough for his own chambers, which settled that question, though he was young still--his father's features were reflected in softer ways upon the prince's curious face, and he was conspicuously small of stature beside his father's men. _Let us hope,_ Glorfindel thought even as he hailed Lindir, _that he is as well-behaved as he appears_...

"...So I am certain he could arrange a tour for you during your visit," Lindir finished enthusiastically, then turned to greet the seneschal. "Ah, and here's Glorfindel to commandeer your company all for himself I'm sure. Rest well tonight, Greenwood gwedyr, for he likely has a score and more of interesting things planned for your stay."

Glorfindel smiled ingratiatingly and sketched a small bow of deference. "If your Highness would care to follow me, rooms are ready for your party to rest until dinner. I did wish to consult you on quartering your attendants--" he opened the ledger to a layout of the House, pointing out rooms. "They can be placed here, near your own chambers, a few men to a room, or they might spread out more in a lower corridor. Here. At your preference."

Thranduil barely glanced at the page, waving a hand as if the very question wearied him. "It is your arrangement, Seneschal, put them where you choose."

Glorfindel kept his expression patient, sending Lindir to take them to the lower rooms, then ascended the far stairs with the remaining four. He took a bit of a roundabout way there, coming up the far end of the hallway so Thranduil could see where his counsellors were roomed. He was not entirely sure why he bothered, as little as the king seemed to care. At any rate, he was glad to leave them at adjacent doors with a promise of their things being brought up momentarily. The king gave a brisk nod and disappeared inside.

The prince, however, turned a little of the smile earlier given to Lindir upon him and inclined his head in thanks. "Hannon le, Master Glorfindel."

"Ú-trasta nin," Glorfindel lied, though the smile he gave in return was true enough. Perhaps he might find an ally where he'd not thought to look.

The prince nodded once more, and slipped into his chambers, closing the door quietly. Glorfindel, for his part, was off to find ways of keeping the visitors busy and happy while they were in Imladris. He suspected it might prove to be tricky.

The evening trotted too quickly by; though Glorfindel passed on both dinner and entertainment, the only thing he'd finished by midnight was the alcohol. It was the wrong time of the season for festivals, and while technically he could have arranged feasting and dancing for every evening of the king's stay to keep them busy, he suspected neither Erestor nor Elrond would ever forgive him for the effort and expense required to do so. A tour of the place, if Thranduil was even interested enough to view the parts of Imladris necessity didn't dictate, could occupy a few hours. There was a tournament or two to come, and the garden to explore, but if the king was still intending to stay the originally planned six weeks, Glorfindel would have to do a great deal better than that. Even if (as he hoped) Thranduil and his two advisors shut up in council meetings and discussion with Elrond most of the day, that still left the prince to be kept busy.

Presumably Elrond would expect him to play nursemaid, if that were the case. He couldn't say he'd mind missing a few councils, though they might pick up a bit if the king had any negotiations in mind for the visit; but he didn't relish the idea of being responsible for the prince. Glorfindel supposed he could take lessons with Elrond's sons if Thranduil was willing (if, he amended, Thranduil cared one way or the other), and perhaps the twins could be relied upon to entertain him the rest of the time. They were a bit older than the wood-prince, but presumably they would know best what sorts of things the sons of rulers interested themselves with at that age.

He was well aware that his plans depended entirely on how well Elrond and his sons could keep the Silvans busy, but that was the best he had to offer the moment. He was a lord, not a trained pony, and he could only do so much for their amusement.

As for the manuscript--ha, lucky indeed if he were to make any headway there. His train of thought had been entirely disrupted, and there was no use trying to regain it. It seemed he had intended to write a little about himself; but what and why, he could not recall, and the lone few sentences there didn't jog his memory at all. He reflected idly that he should like to finish it someday, if only to get a reaction to those sentences. Everyone knew some version of his role in the Fall of Gondolin--what if they were suddenly to be told he were not the same elf at all? He smiled a little bitterly as he let himself imagine. Betrayed, they would feel, as if he owed them something for their misguided beliefs. They would call him fraud and many things worse, and say he had never looked like the paintings, he had never acted like the tales, and they had known all along.

And he would finally find some peace from their questions. Maybe that would save him the sleepless nights from dreams that cropped up when they begged for details and he gave in. Maybe it would stave off the despair that settled in when they insisted on introducing him to this or that descendant of one of his men, whether or not he remembered the face. Such eager, bright eyes he could barely stand it--as if they were all sharing some nostalgic bond, as if the sight of a dead comrade several generations removed should have him sighing with fond memory.

Even now, shut up in his chamber when the city had gone quiet around him, he could not bear to think of it. Or perhaps because he was shut away and closeted up--too much thinking space. He decided to chase it out with night air and stars, if he could, folding open the balcony doors and striding out to lean on the rail.

Fireflies had hovered earlier in the evening, but now it was too cool and dewy for their tastes. The drop in temperature had cleared the humidity some, and the stars sparkled unhindered by cloud or fog. He was not surprised to see other watchers on other terraces; what did elves love better than stars?

He was, however, a bit surprised to see four pale heads spread along balconies on the other side of the house--even so late, after a long journey, all of the Silvans housed in the west corridor had come out to look up at the sky. The counsellors looked on silently, but the king and his son talked, pointed--smiled occasionally. Glorfindel was fairly certain they had not seen him; he watched silently some minutes, distracted from the stars by the stargazers.

It was possible he had mistaken Thranduil--who was currently giving every indication of being a lover of beauty like any elf. Perhaps a tour would not be as ill-received as he'd originally thought. And truly, it wasn't as if he were _adan_, the man had to have some elven decency buried somewhere. Glorfindel was encouraged at the thought.

At last, he withdrew, leaving the night and its treasures to the guests. He was sure they had a more deserving appreciation than he did, this night. His bed or bottle would do better to dispel his sorrows, anyway.


	2. Riding Out

_See warnings, disclaimer etc. on Chapter 1_

---- 

Morning was bright and misty in the valley, and the light lent Glorfindel a bit of colour, softening the signs of sleeplessness. Erestor had arranged the morning table to put the two of them closest to the royal party, and Glorfindel decided it would be best to make pleasant morning conversation until he was directly asked about the agenda for the day. It gave him more time to make something up. 

Thranduil and his son looked more awake than they had any right to be. Thranduil's voice was lowered as he spoke, but from the tone Glorfindel guessed he was likely giving parental mandates, as fathers everywhere were wont to do. He imagined that instead of _behave yourself, stay away from the deep parts of the river, eat all your vegetables_, it was _sit up straight, practice your haughty look, and for Eru's sake stay away from those filthy Noldor_. 

That wasn't fair of him, and he knew it. He quelled the thought and tried to follow along with the amiable conversation of Erestor and the two Greenwood counsellors, nodding occasionally and smiling at appropriate places. Erestor arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing of the silence. 

"Master Glorfindel?" His mind did not register for several seconds that he was being addressed, and he turned, startled, as his name was spoken for the second time. He could not tell from the king's expression whether he was amused or annoyed, so he murmured an apology to be on the safe side. 

"I had hoped to know what my son would be doing today while I deal with business, if it was not too much trouble." Thranduil's voice conveyed a little of both, probably regarding him as some incompetent to be dealt with as briefly as possible. 

"Of course, my lord. I wanted to discuss the possibility of entering him into lessons with Elrond's sons, taught by Erestor and myself." _Not_ the ones taught by Lindir, but he tactfully avoided the mention. 

Thranduil looked disdainful. "He has his own tutors at home. No, I would prefer their curriculum not be disrupted, and at any rate for Legolas this trip is intended as a holiday. Surely the youth of Imladris do not spend all their time bent over dusty lore simply because its master prefers to." 

The muscles in Glorfindel's jaw clenched, just slightly, but he nodded deferentially. "I was merely uncertain whether your highness wished for the prince's education to continue while you remain our guests." He looked now to the prince himself, finding it easier to be polite to the youth until his irritation calmed. "I thought you might like to be shown the grounds and woods today. Elladan and Elrohir are fond of a great number of outdoor activities, and they of course know every nook and cranny of the valley. If you are feeling refreshed enough after your journey." 

The prince smiled and inclined his head in assent, but not before sparing a brief glance for his father. Thranduil looked as if he might comment, then dismissed it. "I expect that will keep him suitably amused. You will, of course, be supervising them?" 

If he had been thinking more quickly, he'd have relieved one of the staff of their duties for the day to look after the youths. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation was not particularly conducive to an agile mind, and he merely nodded. "Of course, my lord." 

The king nodded tersely and set down his fork, his attention back on his son. "I will see you at evening meal, then." 

Erestor too pushed his plate aside, sparing a smirk for Glorfindel before standing. "Allow me to show you our council chamber, your highness." Glorfindel scowled at his back, then rearranged his features carefully before turning back to the prince. 

He was more than a little surprised to be confronted with not one but three young elves. The twins had appeared out of nowhere, as they tended to do unnervingly often. They stood now flanking Thranduil's son in his chair, Elladan leaning over the poor boy to snatch the last pastry from the tray, chattering like magpies. 

"What's this we hear about exploring?" 

"Can we blindfold him on the secret trails?" 

"You didn't want us to stay dry, did you?" 

"Is he afraid of heights?" 

"Has he got a sword?" 

Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose there's half a chance you two could tone it down a bit?" 

Elrohir gave him a sweet grin and swiped half the pastry from his brother. "Late night, Glorfindel? Tsk. So what's your name, Thranduilion? And have you got a sword?" 

"Legolas." His voice sounded particularly quiet after the twins' rapid-fire questions, though they could make a thunderstorm seem soft-spoken. "Actually, I prefer my bow." 

"Whatever you two have in mind, give it up now. I'll be along with you." Glorfindel fixed Elladan in particular with a strong look, earning a picture of wide-eyed innocence in return. "No swords, and no bows either. Except perhaps for target practice." 

"Of course, target practice! The target can be the first orc we see." 

"There aren't any orcs in Imladris," the prince put in, expression unreadable. 

"There had better not be." The sudden ferocity in Elladan's tone would have been startling if Glorfindel did not know its cause. "We meant to ride down the road a ways. But that's not till evening, they don't come into the sun like proper warriors. First we can take you behind some of the waterfalls--" 

"--we'll have to blindfold you first of course--" 

"You're not taking Prince Legolas orc-hunting." 

Elladan nodded to his twin, entirely ignoring Glorfindel, and continued. "Yes, our favourite ones are secret. Unless you wanted to climb up the rocks and look over the valley first. You can see where everything is that way." 

"It's still warm enough for swimming. We can do that after we climb, to cool down." 

"And lunch behind the waterfall!" 

"I'm not carrying the food." 

"Glorfindel can. Or we can take horses and pack a saddlebag." 

"Horses," Glorfindel said quickly. "I'm not in a mood to go traipsing over the whole of Imladris on foot today. And no blindfolds." The twins were not nearly as disappointed by that as he thought they should be, which probably meant they were already plotting something else. "Let's go pack up some food, shall we? Keep the two of you productively occupied." 

"If you're keeping watch on Legolas, and Erestor's going to be locked in council meetings all day while they're here, does that mean we only have Lindir's lessons?" Elladan had already bounded ahead, but Elrohir lingered, walking backwards down the hallway to face his tutor. 

"I am not _keeping watch_ on him. Prince Legolas does not need a minder any more than the two of you do." Glorfindel eyed him a moment, then amended that. "In fact, I suspect far less. And you know Erestor better than that, I'm sure he'll leave plenty for you to do during the lessons he cannot attend. As for mine, you are exempt today and today only." The twin grinned and dashed off to find his counterpart and, no doubt, wreak havoc on the unsuspecting kitchen staff. 

"What are their names?" Legolas asked, when he had gone. 

"The one I just spoke to is Elrohir, and his brother is Elladan, though it is difficult enough to tell one from another at first acquaintance. Forgive me, I should have introduced them properly." They walked at their leisure, slow easy paces while the last of Elrohir's steps clattered out of hearing. 

"Would they have quieted long enough?" Glorfindel would almost have taken the question for a serious one. But a bit of light played in the prince's eyes and a smile tugged at his mouth; the elder elf found himself smiling too as they walked quietly on. 

The kitchens were quiet this time of day, the washing-up from breakfast near finished, and now that the twins were busy packing a meal for four their tongues had stilled awhile. Glorfindel leaned against a table, and Legolas stopped just inside the doorway at easy attention, straight-shouldered but not stiff. It was no use offering to help, once the twins were set upon a task; the other two merely watched, and refrained from commenting upon the sheer number of honey-cakes which found their way into the pannier. 

The weather gave them pause as they rode out, one of those rare days at the seam of seasons that seemed too sweet to be real. Gondolin had been happiest in spring, blooming and bursting and shining in newfound sun, but Imladris always glowed gold in autumn, and the beds were made for chilly evenings. 

The twins' mounts suited them well, lithe dark creatures full of mischief that danced impatiently while their masters reviewed plans for the day. Glorfindel's own was a tall white mare called Brinbain to whom he was particularly attached, having previously owned several of her line; they too were well matched, he thought, though he doubted one could say his own qualities were so reflected in the horse. The Greenwood prince smiled and spoke softly to his bay colt as they waited, and it stood still and alert. 

Inexplicably, Glorfindel himself felt a bit like an elfling freed from lessons for the day. Elladan bolted off suddenly, Elrohir merely a blink behind, and a whim had him chasing after, closing the distance of their start. The prince for his part was not far behind, though he had the disadvantage of being twice surprised; the four rode laughing towards whatever destination Elladan had in mind, the twins occasionally calling out challenges to one another. 

The two pulled up at the head of a more narrow path, waiting for the fairer set to close the gap before continuing single-file. Glorfindel dropped back to put himself behind Legolas, noting with a smile the youth's bright eyes and flushed cheeks. Perhaps it would not be such a chore to pretend at being young for a day. 

The twins halted in a little stony lee aside the path, tying their horses to a scrubby tree and eyeing the mosaic of rock rising above them in a distinctly challenging manner. 

"Not here, unless you've brought ropes and picks," Glorfindel said firmly, and gestured a ways down the path to where the climb was less likely to end in a visit with Námo. Elladan scowled, but Elrohir merely shrugged, and in a blink they were both halfway up the rocks where he'd pointed. 

Legolas had dismounted, but he was still digging for something in the saddlebag. Glorfindel stood by a moment before the princeling looked up. "You can go ahead and keep an eye on them if you need to. I'll be right behind you." 

Glorfindel smiled and followed Elrond's sons up the rocks, taking the path of least resistance (that was to say, the path of most footholds) to join them at the top. 

It was not the highest vantage point around the valley, but one could certainly argue that it was the best. The wind whipped up and seized their hair, snapping it to and fro as three banners against the sky; for a moment, with the rush of the breeze and the dizzying view, Glorfindel felt almost certain he flew rather than stood looking. 

_There stood a city, high and bright, spired and breathtaking; fairer yet than any city I have seen this side of the Sea, and it was my home._

He thought to chase the words off as they appeared in his head, but reconsidered. While he was at it, they could become another scribbled-out line in his book; there was no harm in adding them. He marked the sentence in his mind, then turned his attention back to his surroundings. 

Legolas had still not come, and he grew a little uneasy, moving back to the path where they'd come up and leaning to look over. He could see the horses, but not the prince. Just as he was about to go looking, the twins crowed from their perches, and he turned to see a golden head appearing over the sheer side of the cliff with a grin of mischief. Legolas pulled himself up, flattening out on the rocky edge for a moment before scrambling to his feet. 

The twins could not decide whether to be indignant at the unfairness or delighted with the prince's daring. Glorfindel, on the other hand, was not at all pleased, even less so when he glanced over the edge and was reminded exactly how steep the face was. Did he dare reprimand him? Well, Thranduil had charged him with the supervision of his heir, and if he didn't like the way it was carried out he could complain about it later. 

"Prince Legolas, while you are out with the twins and I you are to obey whatever rules I lay down, even if they are addressed to Elladan and Elrohir. I find it preferable to be less than lenient and bring home three uninjured elflings than to let you do whatever you like and carry you home broken or bloody." 

The young elf was unabashed, giving a slight triumphant smile to the twins before offering his defence. "It's no worse than the trees at home. Well, a little more difficult, less branches. But easy really, when you know how to climb." 

"I did not call into question the difficulty of the task. I did, however, forbid its undertaking. In future you are to obey my rules, until that point at which I have delivered you safely back to your father." 

Legolas stood a little taller, his smile slipping aside. "I was unaware we were to be as children on this excursion. Your earlier words suggested otherwise." 

Glorfindel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not children, no, but youths all the same. When you reach your majority, I am certain you may skitter about on whatever cliffs you like." 

"When I reach my majority," he said plainly, "I shall have more pressing concerns." In that moment he looked very much like his father. It suddenly occurred to Glorfindel the luxury of being a child in a forest where to be grown was to become responsible for failing resources and a people in imminent danger--the thought struck him silent a long while. 

The twins watched him, gazes heavy as they waited for his response. He did his best to hold the steady eyes of the young prince, but they contained more certainty and more determination than he could currently dredge up. At last he looked away, and said only: "Are we to swim next, then?" 

Elrohir was mystified. Elladan was delighted. 

Legolas, for his part, gave away nothing in his expression. He descended, however, by the safest route, even when the twins shimmied down the moderately difficult face they had come up. 

Against his will, Glorfindel discovered his interest had been caught. 


	3. Told and Untold

Dinner was a tumultuous affair as usual. Those who had been yet asleep or already off to their daily tasks during breakfast were gathered along with the rest now, faces bright and conversation animated around the long tables. Thranduil was afforded the place of honour at Elrond's right hand, and Erestor had thus removed to Glorfindel's habitual place at his left, leaving the seneschal free to sneak in further down the table. He was grateful for the respite from things politic, though the twins (sitting beside him) chattered away to Gildor about gathering a force to repel orcs beyond the valley's confines once they reached their majority. Glorfindel was not called upon to participate, so it did not bother him overmuch.

He was still rolling a few thoughts from the day's adventure about in his mind: the odd, auspicious-sounding sentence that had come to him looking over the cliff and the tale it might herald; the coming of autumn, best beloved of seasons here. Both held the promise of something cheering--he might dare to say that was a good mood coming on, for all he tended to shun them.

The unpredictable prince, too, still occupied his thoughts, and even that was cheering. He'd had to keep a firm hand after the climbing incident, for Elladan and Elrohir were eager to seize at the unexpected windfall of someone being able to overrule their tutor, but he could not hold a grudge for it. He was the one who had backed down, after all. Glorfindel liked youth well enough in its way--he supposed he had great affection for the twins, however much they liked to irk him--and the son of Thranduil would be both a useful ally and, seemingly, an interesting acquaintance. If he could get Prince Legolas' goodwill, anyway.

Elladan jostled his elbow, interrupting his contemplation, and it did not seem to be entirely on accident. Glorfindel fixed him with an impatient look, which did no good at all.

"Ada's going to tell of the treachery of Maeglin, tonight." Glorfindel supposed Elrond would take the official version, which made it more or less a history everyone could agree upon. The preferred variant in Imladris slyly suggested that Maeglin's Sindar blood had something to do with his misdeeds, though he had of course never heard that one from his lord's lips. _We point fingers at blood for fear of our own,_ he mused, then realised Elladan was still looking at him.

"Your father's tales are always enjoyable," he said, neutrally, wondering if something more was expected.

Elrohir left off his conversation with Gildor just in time to hear Glorfindel's reply, and leaned across his brother with a smile too calculated to be innocent. "Lindir will be singing of King Turgon."

The lord reached for his wine, and nodded. "Lindir, too, is most pleasant to listen to." _So long as he's singing and not speaking,_ he added silently.

"It seems we have a theme for the evening," Elladan put forth, and both looked at him expectantly. He was beginning to see what they were about, though he would have liked to be mistaken.

"Yes."

There was a pause, which he refused to fill, before they realised it would take more leading to get to the point. "It's been a long time since you told the Balrog story, Glorfindel."

"Yes."

Again, that pause, wherein Glorfindel did not feel inclined to offer up anything else, and the twins hoped he was going to. At last, it was Elrohir who dared. "Will you?"

Elrohir was the one he could never refuse as a child, that shy, hopeful little peep of a voice when he was wanting just _one_ more piece of cake, or ride on his pony, or game before bedtime. It had stopped working on Elrond and Celebrían shortly after the twins had learned to talk, but their tutors were easy game for it and he knew it. He was the appointed spokesperson for the two when any kind of coaxing was involved.

Even now, if the request had been for something else, Glorfindel would likely have given in.

_(but he would never, never speak that story again)_

No. "No."

Both slumped a little in disappointment, though he knew them well enough to recognise that it was probably a reaction calculated to guilt him into giving in. "No one else will tell it, Glorfindel, they can't do it as well as you do. Everyone's afraid to get the details wrong or embellish too much." That was Elladan, plying him with flattery.

"_No_." His response was sharper this time, and their pouts were genuine, if childish. He dared to hope they might let it be; they looked as if they might, for a moment, but then Elladan got a gleam in his eye and the two shared a look.

"Legolas hasn't ever heard it before. He said he'd especially like to hear it from you." Glorfindel was angry in an instant, and knew he'd been foolish in backing down today. As if the name were a magic word, guaranteed to intimidate him into bending!

"When you ask a question," he replied dangerously, "you would do well to heed the answer."

They regarded him quietly, obviously surprised (and not a little intimidated) by the force of his response. After a tense moment, Elrohir murmured an apology, and both dropped their concentration to the remainder of their suppers. Glorfindel grimly went back to his wine, making a mental note to keep out of sight in the Hall of Fire lest the prince really was interested in the narrative. He doubted it would go well if he refused to humour their guests with a simple story.

Chiresaye pudding was brought out and consumed (Glorfindel declined, though the twins made up by taking enough for three between them), and soon after elves began to drift out of the dining hall. Journeyman minstrels and hobby storytellers would already have begun in the Hall of Fire, keeping them entertained while they waited for their fellows to finish dessert, but Glorfindel worked his way slowly through another goblet of wine. He was in no hurry to move on. Indeed, he would have returned to his chambers and foregone the amusements entirely again tonight, were it not for the promise of a tale from Elrond. A rare treat even for him, to hear the Master of Imladris give them a story; Glorfindel knew he would regret missing it.

He was not the only one lingering, though. Eventually he had to give way lest he be called upon to talk with Elrond, Thranduil, Erestor and the rest, or be expected to sit with the guests in the Hall, thereby running the risk of being implored again for the story. It was easy enough to find a hidden spot in the shadow of a support pillar, near the door; most of the watchers gathered as near as they could to the immense hearth at the far end of the Hall, in order to better see and hear the proceedings. A harper and singer stood now before the merrily blazing fire, pleasant enough to hear if no wondrous talent, and Glorfindel listened with half an ear while he waited.

"You seem to have quite a lot of harpers here." He looked up with surprise, not having noticed the elf who joined him.

"Prince Legolas. Forgive me, I did not see you." There were no chairs spread this far back, but the prince seemed to have no problem sitting on the floor beside him. "Lord Elrond is a master of the harp. Many students come in hopes of studying with him, or take up the instrument out of admiration."

"One hopes these are the students _before_ he has trained them," Legolas replied, gesturing to the players with a faintly amused smile. It was a fair enough assessment--another pair had begun while Glorfindel was distracted, and their skill was hardly impressive. Obviously the more talented musicians were being saved for when Elrond and Thranduil arrived.

Glorfindel smiled, and hoped that he could keep the conversation clear of storytelling or at least his own role therein. "Alas, I fear those pour souls shall never receive his help. He only has time for two or three students for the duration of an apprenticeship, considering the demands of his position. Besides, it may well be a lost cause."

The prince laughed lightly, leaning back against the pillar. "Do you mind if I stay hidden here a bit? It isn't that I don't like Elladan and Elrohir, but I..." He considered his words carefully a moment, as if wary of offending. "I need a bit of a rest."

"Perfectly understandable. Can you tell them apart yet?"

"Well...not in so many words, no." Legolas eyed him sidelong, looking amused rather than abashed. "It does not seem to irk them, though, to be called one another's names."

He nodded, approving of the attempt, however unsuccessful. "As I understand it, they prefer for someone to try, and guess wrong, than to be addressed as 'Which one are you again?'"

The younger elf smiled again, quieting for a moment as Elrond and Thranduil crossed the threshold, though he did not seem to notice their entrance at all. "They say you never tell the story of your fall, anymore."

There it was. Such a simple, direct statement that all his conversational arts could not dance around the subject, though he decided to try the same technique he'd used on the twins, monosyllabic answers that gave nothing away. "No."

Legolas nodded, then turned to see what passed at the front of the chamber. The mediocre duo had yielded the floor to Lindir, which was a relief, and he began his song just as lord and king settled themselves into the ornate chairs reserved for their use. Glorfindel waited stiffly for his attention to return, for the inevitable question to be asked, but he seemed to think that satisfactorily closed the topic.

"It's difficult to explain," Glorfindel added after a long moment, feeling he _ought_ to explain. Legolas turned to him again and shrugged, slightly, as if the logic were obvious.

"Some things are hard to talk about. I imagine one's own death would be that sort of thing." It seemed simple when he said it; phrased that way, Glorfindel's reluctance even to think upon it sounded perfectly reasonable. The prince drew invisible patterns on the rug a moment, then added, "My father does not speak of Oropher, nor remain in a room where his tale is sung. He likes his father to be remembered, but...his own memories are difficult to bear."

It struck a sudden, unexpected spark of kinship with Thranduil in Glorfindel's mind. Doubtless they told more flattering stories of Oropher in the Greenwood than here, but even the most generous praise could trouble a sore spot. Memories held wounds the body had long since scarred over, though it felt strange to find understanding in the son of a king he previously had little to no respect for--and a similar pain borne by the elf himself.

Well, it didn't excuse Thranduil entirely, simply giving him the benefit of the doubt, but Glorfindel resolved to be a little more kind in his opinions where he could. Legolas had turned again towards the entertainment, leaving him to his thoughts; after another moment of reflection, he too focused on Lindir's voice, and the song he was just finishing.

The room had settled into silence, and remained that way, now. However outspoken they might be at supper, the Elves of Imladris wouldn't dare spoil good tales by talking through them. Even here, furthest from the fire, each voice carried clear. Elladan and Elrohir had been right; Gondolin did seem to be the theme of the evening, though not all the performers kept to it.

The evening drew on in wonder as each tale and song was spun along; candles and wall torches flickered out or were extinguished one by one, until only the room's great fireplace and the occasional illusions of a particularly skilled bard lit the Hall. A hush more pressing than mere quiet worked its way bit by bit through the gathered crowd, until at last, at the peak of the silence, Elrond rose from his carved chair and took the harp held in care by one of his students. He turned to address the assembled watchers as the chair was moved in front of the fire, welcoming their guests and praising those who had shared their talents before him. A finer-meshed screen was put before the great hearth as he seated himself, dimming even that light, and every ear strained to listen.

Elrond had a power unrivalled by any of his minstrels--or indeed, anyone Glorfindel had known this side of the Sea--when it came to the telling of tales. They might paint a pretty picture, use the little magics a bard had at his disposal, but this was something different entirely. Elrond spoke of people in such a way that you felt you had known them from childhood, heroes and villains alike; he spoke of cities and you could have walked through the streets blindfolded without losing your way.

He spoke of war, and your fist clenched around a phantom sword hilt, the vibrations of a battle cry just dying in your throat.

Glorfindel stayed in part because he enjoyed watching Elrond work his wonders upon the listeners; in part because he enjoyed the illusions being worked upon him. And, in some hidden thought which he would not quite acknowledge, he stayed to prove that he could. To prove that he was capable of listening to this story--reliving it, as it were, if Elrond's telling was up to his expectations. To prove that he was Glorfindel still, who had fought for his city unafraid, and raised his sword to a Balrog with only terror that it might live on to harm those he protected. Goldtress--Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower--he would never have fear of a simple story, however well-told it might be.

He needed to know that he was what he claimed to be, even if he only ever claimed it to himself.

Elrond began.

_In the year 345 of the First Age_ (Glorfindel wondered, had it not been the end of 344? He doubted himself now, and Elrond's storytelling was very persuasive) _the sister of Fingon King returned to the Hidden City after long years of absence. Turgon had believed her dead, and was amazed to see her--so much so that he had difficulty believing Aredhel was who she claimed to be. The forest had changed her, they said; the wilds were in her eyes, her skin too pale for health, and her hair longer but left loose to snarl, caught with leaves. Turgon found little of the sister he had known in her fey features, but there was little else to explain the woman in his halls who knew what only Lady Aredhel would. _

_She brought with her a boy of five and twenty, her son Maeglin by an elf called Eöl, kinsman of Thingol. Eöl had shunned his people and grown strange and twisted beneath the dark of the trees, Aredhel said; once she had loved him, but now she feared him (Glorfindel had seen Eöl once, before he had been put to death, and it was no wonder. The wildness that had been in Aredhel's eyes was nothing compared to the sheer animal madness in her estranged husband's). The boy swore fealty to his uncle, and Turgon promised to shelter them within his city._

Glorfindel stopped adding mental notes, closed his eyes, and sank into the story.


	4. Villains and Heroes

_The rain clattered and skittered and plunked over the cobbles, making the white stone of the city all grey with reflections of the black sky. Of course it would be raining, on such a day--but to be fair, there had been many storms in Gondolin that bode nothing but ill weather, and enough sunny days paired with sad times. Glorfindel had just come in from duty at his gate, half-drowned in the downpour, and curled into a warm bed with a warm elf to listen to the thunder and the roar of the rain; but Elrond's tale was a tiny tugging thread, gently pulling him away from that memory. Elsewhere things had already been set in motion. _

Maeglin walked tall and sure enough through the gates, the guards unquestioning when he'd pushed back his hood that they might discern his face. Once he passed beyond and the thick sheet of rain concealed him from their eyes he stumbled, fell once into the wet street, dragged himself up and went on again. Exhausted, ill with poison and with fear, he slogged his way to the closest inn and hired a room for the night.

He bid a message sent to the palace that he'd returned safely (however much of a stretch that might be), then stumbled up the stair, falling onto the bed. It would be a long night of shivering and retching and feverish nightmares for Maeglin, but he knew it to be his burden. If someone would only wipe his brow, lie beside him and stroke his hair--but no. That would come later, and perhaps his current misery might be recompensed.

Turgon was relieved to hear Maeglin had returned, for his nephew's convoy had been gone far longer than expected. He had begun to worry that the dangers beyond his kingdom were greater than he'd realised, but now it occurred to him more likely that Maeglin had simply found something noteworthy in his scouting and been too wrapped up in his find to send word. The message was terse, vague enough to give the king no hint that Maeglin had returned alone, and the boy who carried it did not realise there was any cause to say so.

Only one among the Gondolindrim even suspected anything was amiss, and he was too busy being violently ill to spread the word even if he had wished to.

The rain trickled out to a patter towards morning, and at last a somewhat drippy silence settled in at dawn. The clouds stayed, but the rain had finished for now. (Glorfindel wondered whether the battle might have gone differently if it had kept up. The Balrogs, their strongest weapon, would have been weakened by it, which may have made up for the lessened visibility the downpour would cause--but never mind. Elrond was already moving on.)

Thus came the last morning Gondolin would see, dewy and overcast, and cold for mid-spring; bright for orc-kind but not more of a hindrance than wet streets would be to Turgon's soldiers.

Glorfindel, unknowing, had wedged himself into the corner between pillar and wall. He was vaguely aware of it now, but the Hall of Fire seemed the illusion and Elrond's tale the reality, and it was more difficult now to shake it off. He tried and sank further, the city flooding back into solidity.

_Maeglin's sickness had faded somewhat during the long night; now he had only his guilt, and a slight shivery aftertaste of the tortures to which he had been subject, to hinder him. He rose and paced, weak but unable to be still any longer, and did not know what to do._

_If he gave a warning--and they would know--the bargain he had struck would be forfeit. Idril might perish, and he could not have that. If he fought with his people..._ (How dare he count himself among us, Glorfindel wished to protest, but then the wording was Elrond's and he must remember this was but a tale)_ That had not been part of his oath, but then_ he_ might perish, and one could not trust the ill-bred creatures of Morgoth to keep her safe or inviolate were he not there to oversee it. _

Say nothing, then, and do nothing. They would know his treachery, as he watched his kin be slain and lifted no finger to stop it. She_ would know his treachery, and never understand. But they both would live, so long as he could avoid the justice of his own people, and he could be sure. Or-- _

There is no doubt that Maeglin was wicked. He was yet an elf, and you may believe his guilt and grief was unfeigned, but he might have stopped at that option. To be known for what he was, in exchange for her life and safeguarding of a promise. He did not, for there was another choice still.

He dressed, put on again the armour he'd cast aside the night before, ate a bit of the breakfast the innkeeper laid before him; then he went forth. He relieved a palace guard of his duty--one of the men of his House, for each of the twelve added their strength to the palace, more for show and status than from any real need. There he waited, listening intently. It was a frustratingly long time after he began hearing the far-off sounds of approach and the beginnings of attack that his fellow-guard realised something was amiss, but Maeglin bided it silently, and did a fair pantomime of shock before he began to run.

Idril was in the nursery, finger-tracing letters with Eärendil that he might learn the movements to pen them. The thick walls dulled noise from outdoors; she too was blissfully unaware of what had even now passed the first two gates of her city, and she looked up in puzzled surprise. "Cousin. Father said you'd returned."

He took no heed of her coolly polite tone. "The city is under attack, Idril. You are not safe. Gather your son and come."

She paled, and he could see how her arms tightened about the child. Still, as ever, she kept her calm. "We are beyond the Great Gate. Do you not trust the work of your own hands? It has been well tested. If we are not safe here, you can lead me to no place that will be."

"I know," he said carefully, as with great effort, "I have given you little cause to care for me, but I beg that you would trust me. Gather your maidservants, the children, those that are not meant for fighting, and follow me." He paused, shuddering faintly, his horror sincere enough. "You have not seen the forces ranged against us. There is no hope, now that we have been discovered, save to leave the city."

Idril was not moved, though Eärendil was beginning to get an idea of what went on beyond the window and had turned from his letters to hide against his mother's neck. "If things are as you say, we will not make it out." Her tone made it clear she doubted they were as he said, at any rate.

Maeglin paced in frustration. "I helped to build the city's defences, Princess! I know where we might escape, and whatever you think of me I do not wish you, or Eärendil, or any of the other peaceful folk in this place to die." He crossed impatiently to the window, tapping on the pane and then unfastening the catch to improve the view. "Look, if you would call me liar!"

She gathered up her son and rose, looking where he pointed. The palace towers looked out over most of the city. At first even her sharp eyes could not make truth of his claim--the dark army was too large to be seen for what it was, the mind automatically leaping to call it some shadow of the gathered clouds overhead, or an ill fog. Then suddenly there rang out clear (even at this distance) the awful, wrenching sound of the fourth gate being torn asunder like so many cobwebs; the forms flooding through the opening separated for a brief moment, enough to be distinguished for what they were. She clasped Eärendil to her breast in mute terror as a larger shape crested the incline before the first gate and came crashing through the opening its brethren had left--a massive dark monster with flicks of flame all over, igniting bits of her city as it brushed them.

Her city perished.

Glorfindel's hands were clasped over his mouth now, in that despairing way that is as much for the comfort of the pressure as for muffling sound. Legolas was the only one sitting near enough to hear his soft noise of distress, but the prince was just as deep in the illusion as he, having never been treated to one of Elrond's tales before.

This would march on to its conclusion. Glorfindel could not stop it or change it, any more than he could have the first time; but now he _knew_, had to stand by and watch it happen.

Elrond followed Maeglin's thread, but Glorfindel Goldenflower was elsewhere, at home in his abode out beyond the sixth gate.

Ecthelion had insisted upon going home for his own armour, damn his pride. In retrospect Glorfindel could acknowledge it had been for the better--nothing he had on hand could have fit or protected Ecthelion so well, but he knew now as then that that wasn't the reason for it. The Lord of the Fountain would not go to war in another House's cast-offs, however great the urgency. More to the point, he would not advertise where he'd been the night before. Not even if he never lived to hear the gossip.

Glorfindel was surprised to find that knowledge still stung, amidst all his more justified pain. He'd not seen Ecthelion again. He wasn't sure he'd ever forgiven him for that.

The conflicting tenses of his thoughts, _now_, _then_, freed Glorfindel a little from his thrall. He put his hands down, folding them in his lap; drew a deep breath, and was able to listen to the words of the tale for a little before he was absorbed again.

_In a panic Idril dashed into the corridor, calling for whoever would come, heeding not whether Maeglin followed. At first he thought he would have to beg her to come away, or worse; but then he realised she was gathering those she could. It thrilled him (in some small measure, frightened him) that his plan was working. That _Idril_ whom he _loved_ was trusting him with her life. _

He would lead her true.

They fled, a train of maidens and children and hastily recruited guards to flank them, through the secret alleys and catwalks of the city. Some were familiar to Idril, but she could not but admit that Maeglin knew where he was leading. They slipped in hollows between walls that seemed to be solid; sometimes paths so narrow they had to turn sideways to go on. The sounds of battle grew distressingly close, right outside their walls at times, but Maeglin did not waver.

Idril could keep a mental reckoning, though the walk they travelled was unfamiliar. Maeglin led them towards the first gate, the very entrance to Gondolin. It was a brave, mad risk, and she only prayed he knew an inconspicuous exit. She did not allow herself the fear that he might not be trustworthy; she could not afford the panic it would breed once the idea took root in her brain.

Maeglin halted, holding out a stern hand behind him to gesture for silence. They had reached an archway of sorts, that crossed through the wall in the other direction--open to the courtyards on either side, a space they would have to cross and hope not to be spotted. He had nearly determined it safe to run, when someone stumbled wild-eyed through the arch and into his path.

Tuor stared at him, then at his train of palace-elves, taking perhaps too long to sort out what they were doing--Maeglin, in terror of being discovered, jumped backwards and yanked Tuor into the breezeway, reluctant as he was to have the man join their party, and put a finger to his lips to stop him asking stupid questions. Another moment of watchful silence, then Maeglin pushed past to cross the space in a quick movement, beckoning his train of refugees to follow. Tuor glared, but fell in with the rest, intending to see his wife and son to safety before returning to the fray.

There were a few more such breaks to cross, and none were traversed so easily as that first, but they were not caught. At last a blocking wall and the ladder rungs scored up its face signalled the end of the passage, and Maeglin turned to address his company in a low voice.

"At the top of this wall, you will be--for a moment--very exposed. Keep as low as you can, and as silent. You should find another ladder around four paces from the top of this one--the first person out can unroll it and secure it at the bottom. It comes down behind a fall of rock, large enough for us to all gather, and you will wait there until everyone is safely over." He pointed out a guard. "You, out first. Remember to keep low!" The guard, another of Maeglin's House, did not hesitate to obey his lord. They waited as he disappeared over the top of the wall, ears pricked for sounds of discovery, but there was only the soft scrape and clank of armour crawling along stone.

Atop the wall, the elf loosed the rope ladder, which spooled itself down with a soft whirr. It was a great distance to the ground, especially when the ladder was not yet secured at the bottom. Dark creatures still swarmed into the nearby gate, and kept watch, but the ladder was positioned at a convenient corner, that helped to shade him from their eyes as he descended. At last, with a sigh of relief, he leapt down the remaining distance and begin securing the ladder upon the ground pegs.

One by one the others were sent after to huddle there in the lee of the stones, Maeglin dictating the order. At the last only he and Tuor remained waiting, Idril and her son just disappearing at the top of the ladder.

"You will not be able to get back in, once we stir past the shelter of the rock. Will you defend your city? If you come now with us, you cannot." Maeglin let his point sink in. "We will follow the Mindeb down to Sirion, and then to Sirion's mouth. Catch up if you can, or meet us at the delta. If--" He faltered briefly. "If the city can be saved, send a rider, that we may return with all haste."

There was logic in it, of course, but Tuor balked at the idea of leaving Maeglin alone with his wife and only child. "Let me take them. My mind will not be eased till I see Idril and Eärendil safe beyond the reaches of Morgoth. Find your uncle and guard him, you know how brash he can be."

Maeglin did not listen, already beginning his way up the ladder. "You do not know the hidden way to the river. You will get yourself caught and the rest of them killed or worse."

Tuor scrambled angrily after him, ignoring his hiss to go back down immediately. "Then we will both go."

"Are you a coward, that would hide himself among maids and children while others fight?" Maeglin reached the top, then lay flat against the stone and turned on his stomach to glare down at the Adan.

"Look to yourself!" Tuor replied, indignant, making no sign of stopping.

"I know where I am going, and how to lead them safely," Maeglin snapped. "Secrecy is my business, Fíreb_, and battle is more to your tastes. Do what is useful, for Eru's sake." Perhaps the force with which he shoved Tuor was intentional, or perhaps he merely meant to prevent further ascent with a firm pressure on his shoulder and overestimated in his annoyance; whatever the case, the man slipped. His feet went from beneath him, and there was a tense moment of hanging by one hand before he managed to get them on the rungs again. _

However it was meant, Tuor interpreted it as a threat, and responded accordingly. His dagger was out in the blink of an eye, and Maeglin had to make a quick scramble backwards to keep it from being at his throat. Tuor, made careless by his anger, stepped up onto the wall at his full height. Maeglin had no choice but to rise as well, and he could only manage that because Tuor was sheathing the dagger in favour of his sword. He expected to be spotted at any moment, though he supposed it would be Tuor who took the arrows. He laid a hand on his sword but did not draw it yet.

"Come, then, if you are so adamant. Let us not fight amongst ourselves at such a time. We'll be seen by unfriendly eyes, and make it all for naught."

Tuor was not placated. "How did they know, Maeglin? How could they find the Hidden City? Ulmo certainly did not lead them to it. Who, then, did?" The tension rose between them, but still Maeglin did not draw his sword. It would only make things worse, he knew. "Who told them? Is it not a strange coincidence that you return the eve before we are attacked? There are shadows beneath your eyes, traitor_. You would lead us right into their hands, and claim my wife as your reward." _

It was enough. Anguirel was out, flashing in the cloudy light. "Mind what you say, son of Man."

Tuor lunged, and there was the ring and scrape of metal as Maeglin repelled him.

Glorfindel couldn't help it. He looked past the fighters on the wall, out over the city. He could see a few of his men, beacons of gilt armour in hordes of black, but mostly Rog and Ecthelion's soldiers fought in the courtyard laid below. He had not been there, but he'd imagined the scene often enough.

He knew what was coming before he saw it; there was a clatter of stones being knocked aside, and then the creature emerged from the fallen and widened archway.

Gothmog was near twice the size of the creature that haunted Glorfindel's nightmares. He would have turned, if he dared, but he did not. Even Tuor and Maeglin (still in fierce combat) briefly dancing backwards into his view could not turn his eyes.

He knew what was coming before he saw it; a challenging cry echoed from the stones, and a figure already mythical in his own right blazed through the opposing archway, looking as Tulkas himself in a battle frenzy.

_Maeglin was at last driven to the edge; he met his end by Tuor's hand, cast onto the city stones far below them._

The fight was short, but that may only have been Glorfindel's mind abridging in self-defence. No way to recall now how long the real one had or had not raged on, for he'd not heard anything they said after "Ecthelion is slain, my lord." In this version, the elf was fearless but mad; diving and bellowing, a blur of silver and black that managed always to be right where the Balrog's whip was not. The creature numbered wounds upon wounds, while Ecthelion seemed never to get a scratch.

_So ends the Tragedy of Maeglin son of Eöl, leader of the House of the Mole that once existed in Gondolin._

And then, quicker than blinking, the Balrog got in a lucky strike. A fiery tail curled around the hilt of Ecthelion's sword, scalding his fingers as it ripped the weapon from them. The blade flew, hissing into the deep basin of the fountain beside the fighters, unlikely to be retrieved until the battle had ended.

A lesser elf may have been daunted by a lack of weapon, but Ecthelion lived for moments like this. Glorfindel knew it now as he had known it then--this last fight was the Lord of the Fountain's greatest glory, and he relished it. He _enjoyed_ it, the bastard. The manic glint was almost visible from here.

It had always amazed Glorfindel that someone so vain as Ecthelion wore such an indisputably ugly helmet. It was an unflatteringly round affair, with a great pointed spike on top; it made him look ridiculous, as Glorfindel had told him frequently. If he didn't know better, now, he would almost suspect that the lord had possessed the gift of foresight--he could not have orchestrated a more perfectly heroic moment than this if he tried. Before the stunned audience of his soldiers and Morgoth's hosts, Ecthelion lowered his head and charged, impaling the Balrog on that stupid spike, tumbling the both of them into the fountain amidst an explosion of flame and dark and hissing steam.

_Master Glorfindel?_

And that was the end of it.

_Master Glorfindel?_

Glorfindel choked, shuddered, blinked as if he'd gone from a dark place into sun. The boy speaking his name was not one of his too-young soldiers, not a cousin of Ecthelion's, no. A prince of the Greenwood, he managed, and then sense flooded back. The story had ended. He was in--Imladris. Yes, Imladris. He knew this place. Gondolin was gone, many years gone.

The Hall of Fire was half-empty now, the young prince's expression distinctly worried. How long had he been there dreaming? As he stirred, Elrond and King Thranduil passed on their way out, conversing idly over the tale.

"I think you paint Maeglin too lightly. He was a monster, of no solidarity with the Gondolindrim save when it served him. Even the accounts of his House's survivors say as much." Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at the other elf, as if in challenge.

"There is no doubt that Maeglin was wicked," Elrond said, and it sounded to Glorfindel like the echo of something that may have been in the tale, if he could have paid heed to the individual words. "But we must recall that he was also elf-kind. I disbelieve in black-and-white storybook villains. They are no more likely than perfect heroes."

Glorfindel would have spoken to contradict him then, if he could find his voice. He had known both.


	5. Ink

**Part II: Laiqualassë**

He went not to his bed, but to his sitting room, the chair in front of the empty hearth. And then, on a whim (perhaps a compulsion), he laid a fire.

The wood was well-aged; Glorfindel wasn't sure why he left it there, never planning on the use of more than candles, but it rested in the same place as any other room might have had it. It had rested there for far longer, that was all. Now he began arranging it in the grate--each twig was placed with a sort of precision, a grim determination that all must be in its exact place. He struck a flint, and the spark did not leap save where he willed it to go. Each flame that took was of Glorfindel's design, under his power, a little tongue of destruction he nursed to glowing strength.

He fed the fire till it roared, till the room was too warm, till stray sparks skittered out onto the stone floor instead of drifting up the chimney. He braided back his hair as if riding to war. He carefully tore a page from his book (one of those that had no words left on it for all the lines struck through), doused it with a bit of his alcohol, and pitched it into the flames. He watched it burst, and the flare reflected in his eyes.

There was Glorfindel, and the fire; alcohol, and a quill; a chair, a glass, and a great deal of ink.

He only hoped he'd be able to read his own fervent penmanship in the morning.

The fire wound down little by little, as fires do, but Glorfindel barely noticed it now that his quill had begun moving. At some point in the night the bottom log crumbled, causing a shift; Glorfindel hadn't set the screen in place, and a still-burning spar of wood fell, skittering out onto the stones. He glanced up, ascertained that it held no immediate threat for himself or his furnishings, and left it to gutter out and scorch the floor.

Stories, perhaps, beget other stories. Or--at the least--shake loose stories which already existed from where they are wedged between denial and memory loss, or between pride and discretion, or wherever it is stories catch en route from mind to mouth. But he wouldn't think that thought until dawn came and the fire was dead. He could barely keep up with the sudden clamour of memory as it was, and certainly had no call to go cluttering it up with philosophy.

When he put down the quill (or rather, when it fell from his fingers to rest beside the now cold and blackened stick), Glorfindel's hands were shaking. His breath came fast, as if he had run to the river and back, and he was far too warm--now that the Bruinen had come to mind he had the singular desire to go immerse himself in it.

Instead he threw open the balcony doors, letting in a damply cool breeze and the regular thrumming sound of steady rainfall. The wet air seemed to quench the last of his frenzy; he kept his eyes carefully averted from the book as he dressed, half-afraid to find it full of nonsense letters. He left it there, open, when he went, without ever glancing at it.

The weather was a relief in more ways than one. It occurred to Glorfindel that he could hardly be responsible for arranging any more strenuous entertainment for the young prince than a board game or a viewing of Elrond's relics from the Last Alliance, today. And, perhaps better still, he would certainly not be called upon to supervise such activities. He could turn Prince Legolas over to the twins and spend the day recovering himself.

The twins, when he found them in the Hall of Fire, had already begun to organise their peers into what seemed to be an impromptu theatre cast. Never at a lack for creating their own amusement, certainly. They looked up when he entered, exchanged a meaningful look, and grinned.

"Come to audition for us, Glorfindel?" Elladan offered him the hilt of a wooden sword, which he declined.

"We have just the part for you," Elrohir informed him cheerfully, underlining something in the book across his knee. "You may be our Finrod."

"Kind as it is of you to offer, I must decline. Have you--"

He was cut off by twin cries of dismay (and to be sure, they were both experts in melodrama). "But Glorfindel! You have the proper hair!"

"None of our wigs are so good by half!"

"And you always read the histories so well!"

"Lindir will _never_ do."

Glorfindel silenced their protests. "I think there is another elf you might cast, who is probably more in need of entertainment than I. Speaking of which, have you seen the Prince this morning?"

The twins exchanged another of their communicative looks before replying. Oh, _honestly_, he was never going to live down having given in yesterday! It wasn't as if he were on the prince's tether, to scramble about after him. He simply wanted to do his job satisfactorily enough that Elrond had no cause to scold him for it.

"He comes anon," said Elrohir in a dramatic voice, and pointed. Indeed, as Glorfindel turned to look Prince Legolas was crossing the Hall towards them, looking curious at being pointed out. Glorfindel nodded him a greeting, but had no chance to speak one before the twins were at it again.

"Legolas! Come, join us. We have just the part for you..." Glorfindel slipped away without listening to the rest of the pitch.

He would have liked to make it out of the House without running into anyone. Unfortunately, Lindir was coming the other way to join the twins at their playmaking, and intercepted him before he even escaped the Hall of Fire. "Departing so soon, Glorfindel? I thought you were meant to be minding the elflings."

Glorfindel made as if to keep walking as he replied, but he could not navigate around Lindir without being impolite. "So long as the twins do not try for any special effects, I imagine they will be safe enough. Keep an eye if you're joining them, won't you?"

Lindir laughed. "I suppose, if you'll tell me what is so important as to drag you away."

He sought for a reasonable excuse. "I think our sentries would appreciate a hot meal, don't you?"

"What, in this weather? How very generous!" Lindir's eyes sparkled. "Or perhaps _someone_ has a sweetheart on the border patrol."

"Hardly. I must discuss a few private matters with their captain. Business only, I assure you. Happy?"

Lindir would have none of it. He winked and mimed locking his mouth closed. "Never fear, your secret is safe with me. Go on then, I'll cover." Glorfindel barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Had there _been_ a secret, Lindir would have been the last person to trust with it--no doubt before he returned the "secret" would have spread to half the city.

It was easy to persuade a few of the kitchen staff to heat some soup for his purposes; as it happened, several of them had sweethearts among the border guards. He had little doubt that would only support Lindir's tale. Glorfindel fetched the double-walled jugs used for keeping soup warm, then held them steady while one of the cooks ladled soup into the inner layer. They packed him bread, too, soft and fresh.

With a jug and loaf for every post, and a sling carrier for every jug, Glorfindel was loaded down like a packhorse. His cloak, once collected, was simply wrapped over the top of his burdens; he could hardly hope to get the slings back on without the aid of the kitchen staff. Besides, he only had to make it to the stables before he could share the load with Brinbain and resettle the cloak more properly. He shouldered open the northmost door, then set out in the rain.

It wasn't till he'd entered the dim, warm stables, and heard the door open again behind, that Glorfindel realised he'd been followed out. A small, dripping silhouette hovered against the grey light, then appeared to notice it was being looked at and closed the door sheepishly; in a few moments Glorfindel could make out the young prince, cloakless and soaking wet. He might have said something--a reprimand, or an expression of surprise--but he spent too long disbelieving his eyes, and the prince spoke first.

"You're a hard one to catch, Master Seneschal! I reached the Hall just in time to see you go, the kitchens in time to be told you were fetching your cloak, your chambers in time to catch a servant who'd seen you leaving, and the door in time to watch you disappear into the rain!" Prince Legolas began to wring his hair out, though unless he planned on staying in the stables till the clouds came up empty, it was something of a useless gesture.

"You should not have come without a cloak!" Glorfindel scolded, unable to help himself. Then, more reasonably, "Did you require something? Lindir was meant to look after anything you needed until I returned. I ought to have told you before going."

"The rain is warm, and I am not made of sugar." The youth grinned. "I wished only to accompany you on your ride. A supporting role in Elladan and Elrohir Theatre is hardly my idea of a day well-spent."

Glorfindel frowned. "Were they truly so bad?"

Prince Legolas laughed, shook his head. "No. But they do enjoy being paid attention to. I had rather be outside than in, and that's the whole of it really." He held out a hand. "I could take some of those for you, or at least the bread--" He hesitated, then, looking briefly embarrassed. "If you don't mind my inviting myself along. I should have asked. May I join you?"

Glorfindel started to refuse, under the pretence that he couldn't in good conscience take the Prince of the Greenwood on such a tedious errand, particularly not without a cloak on. But on reflection--they could hardly talk much on the ride, with the rain drumming solidly, so there would be plenty of space for the thinking he wished to do. If he feared those thoughts would show on his face, well, he had a hood deep enough for shadow. He certainly could understand the wish to be out of the House when everyone else was crammed in.

"If you like," he said at last. "But go and ask the horsemaster for something to wrap up in, at the least. The rain will only be pleasant for so long, and I won't be inclined to escort you back to the House halfway through." The prince obeyed, moving off down the row towards the tack room, and Glorfindel called for a groom to saddle Brinbain and the prince's mount and to help him pack the jugs and bread.

In a moment, Prince Legolas came out again, a barde pulled over him like a cloak. It had been fine once, deep blue and delicately embroidered with Elrond's device in silver, to drape the back of the lord's horse during festivals or official visits; but now it was dusty, the embroidery half-unpicked, left to the abuse of time since a new design had replaced it. The horsemaster had not been the least bit sorry to let it go out in the rain, and it made a very suitable guard against the weather. It didn't dry the prince out any from his previous soaking, but Glorfindel imagined it would do some good--or at the least, he could point to it in his defence when someone wondered why in Arda he'd let the young prince go out riding uncovered in the rain.

"They say you are courting the captain of the guard." The prince vaulted nimbly into the saddle, then looked concerned. "I won't be intruding?"

Glorfindel rolled his eyes and pulled his hood up. Now not simply a guard, but the captain herself! "My, but rumour does spread fast. No, I am not courting the captain, nor anyone else in the guard. Lindir thinks it the only _possible_ explanation for someone who would rather ride out in the rain than stay and perform in the Hall." They smiled briefly at one another, fellows in that desire to escape, then Glorfindel mounted up and the groom swung the door wide for them. "How did _you_ manage to get away, come to think of it?"

"I slipped out while they were arguing over who would play Fingon. And then simply behaved as if I had a message to give you...the kitchen staff was quite helpful, if over-inclined to gossip." Legolas laughed, then resettled himself in the barde. They came from beneath the overhang of the roof then, and the rain caught them again in earnest, effectively finishing the conversation.

The day could accurately be described as dreary, but Glorfindel saw a sort of beauty in it. Wet fog rose up between the raindrops, and the distance faded off into dark silver-grey; the world beyond the riders was erased, and all the reality left was within arm's reach. He wondered whether the prince was thinking the same thoughts, then smiled at his own folly. Youth wished nothing more than to broaden its world, where age and cynicism preferred to narrow it to a manageable size.

Glorfindel supposed it was an ill omen that "manageable size," for him, meant a soggy circle of grass seven paces across, two horses, and two Elves.

Still, he himself was in the circle, and managing himself seemed the greatest task of any these days.

The ride to the first guard-post took little of his attention--Brinbain knew the way, and the prince's horse followed her lead. Once Glorfindel had finished his contemplation of reality and manageability, he turned an eye to his companion, lest he be lax in his duty as guardian. Prince Legolas seemed entirely unperturbed by the fact that he was soaking, though the tendrils of hair that stuck to his forehead made him look less like the son of his impeccable father and more like a stable-boy who'd been jumping in puddles. His expression was too tranquil for that, really, but Glorfindel kept the thought anyway. It made him seem less of a mystery.

The post was little more than a soldier's tent made permanent by the fact that it hadn't moved in centuries. In weather like this a fire was carefully tended inside, though every now and again rain would come down the smoke-hole to make the flames gutter and hiss. The riders dismounted and bid the horses stay, Glorfindel taking down a jug from its sling and Legolas fetching bread from the saddlebags, and the guard inside bid them sincere greetings.

Glorfindel had to sit when they entered, the ceiling so low that he risked bumping his head and spilling the gathering water there over all of them. "A fine day for duty, Duinhir!" he teased, then pushed the jug towards the guard. "We have brought you all something to brighten it. The bread may be cool by now, but the soup shouldn't be. Shall I call for your men?"

Duinhir grinned gratefully, reaching for the mug at his belt. "The tales of Golden Glorfindel's great benevolence are true, I see. And who is your young friend in the horse-frock?"

Prince Legolas handed over the loaf and sat with them, answering before Glorfindel could open his mouth. "'Las will do. Visiting from the Greenwood, and Master Glorfindel let me tag along before I went mad indoors. Pleased to meet you."

Glorfindel gaped a moment, then shook himself and let it lie. If the prince wanted to play at being a common boy, he supposed there was no harm in it. He stepped out to whistle a few notes of birdsong, calling the guards afield of this post, then ducked back into the dry tent as the song began to be echoed.

"Ever thought about the guard, my boy? Naturally, it's your home soil that will give you the best fighting experience, but there's a lot of diplomacy to be learned in a country that takes in wanderers as we do." Duinhir wasted no time, Glorfindel thought with amusement, listening with half an ear.

"I think," said the prince, pretending to consider it, "that my father will probably want me to take up the family trade." Another guard poked his head in, having come at the call, and Glorfindel quietly filled his mug and handed over some bread.

"Ah, well, no shame in that. What's he do, then?"

The second guard covered his soup against the rain and ducked out again to pass on the promise of a hot meal, and Legolas answered with perfect innocence. "He's the King."

Duinhir blinked, as if not quite certain whether to take him seriously. The prince laughed, then, and Duinhir relaxed again, laughing with him. "Cheeky, isn't he? You'd best keep an eye on that one, Glorfindel, no telling what mischief he'll be up to."

The elfling grinned charmingly; Glorfindel found himself smiling too.

"We best be getting on. It will be evening by the time we get round to everyone as it is." He rose to a crouch, pulling up his hood again in time to foil the raindrops as he left the tent. Prince Legolas was on his heels; an arriving guard stood aside to let them pass, and they mounted up again and rode on.

They were in under the trees now, which quieted the rain a little. The prince somehow had contrived to ride beside Glorfindel, despite the trees that regularly barred his way--he and his horse merely danced around them, then returned to their former place as if they trotted down a wide road and not through pathless forest. It was not dense, but it might still have been more easily managed by following single-file. Glorfindel turned to raise an eyebrow at them; the wood-prince took that as an invitation to speak, despite the hush of the forest.

"What were you writing, Master Glorfindel?"

The question drew Glorfindel up short, blinking. "Writing?" He did not say _how did you know?_ Perhaps it still showed on his face.

Prince Legolas laughed at that, the sound surprising and delightful against the rain. "I have a way of knowing things." He paused, letting Glorfindel stare wide-eyed for a few moments before relenting with a grin. "You have ink all over your hands, and they were clean last night."

Glorfindel, well-trained from his years with the twins, knew better than to say _nothing_. He glanced down at his fingers, curled around the reins and just as inky as the princeling said. "Are they so fascinating, my hands?"

"You think me strange for looking." The boy laughed again. "I just notice things, that's all." He waited patiently for a proper answer. Well, it had been a poor misdirection anyway.

"It's--just a history. Nothing of particular interest." There was that _nothing_ he'd meant to avoid. Perhaps he was not so well-trained, at that.

"But it kept you up all night?"

He shifted, wary of the prince's shrewd look. "I...a bit of Elrond's tale reminded me. I thought I'd get it down, for my own reference, and...lost track of the hour."

The measuring expression melted away at the mention of last night's tale, to be replaced with something less piercing--soft, almost. "Ah. Will you put it in the library, then, with the other histories?"

"Oh, I--I should think not. It will hardly interest anyone else."

"Pity." The prince bent backwards gracefully in his saddle, just missing the menace of a low-hanging branch. Glorfindel wondered again why the boy didn't fall back and ride behind. "I tried to read some of what's there, but I think most of the histories are by Erestor. Yours _must_ be less dull." He paused. "Why write a history no one will read, Master Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel hesitated, in his mind, but the reply came to his lips without his quite allowing it to. "So it is not forgotten, when I learn to let it go."

The shrewd look flickered back for a moment, then the prince nodded and turned his eyes to the forest ahead, saying no more. Neither of them spoke further, in fact, until the next guard-post; Glorfindel soundly and silently cursed his loose tongue, but Legolas seemed in deep contemplation. The rain thrummed on, making the quiet a comfortable one despite Glorfindel's self-directed annoyance.

They were welcomed at every stop, and even persuaded to linger awhile and share the meal at one of the lonelier posts. Glorfindel and the guard there--an elf-woman called Caldrian--passed news, idly; the prince asked questions about the terrain, and coaxed stories both silly and serious from the cheerful guard. The gloom of evening had settled by the time they bid her farewell, though it was not yet half-five.

"How many more? Enough to miss the debut of any impromptu acting troupes that might arise?" Prince Legolas grinned, probably imagining the first Elvish performance to give Fingon a twin brother. Glorfindel pushed aside his cloak briefly to show what remained of his cargo; two jugs were left, cooling now despite their clever design.

"Not quite enough, if they plan to perform after supper. But we may slip in unnoticed, if everyone is still eating, and avoid it politely enough." He turned a thoughtful look on Legolas. "But you are young. I should think such follies would entertain you, even if you preferred not to join in."

"Because I am young, I must also be incessantly silly?"

"I was." Glorfindel supposed he did not really know much about young elves, at this remove. The twins were likely not the best cross-sample, when he thought on it. He might have apologised, but the prince seemed to only ask in the spirit of amused observation.

"Today is not the right sort of day for it," he went on, "I liked riding out with you better. Given my choice...I should spend the evening in conversation with you." His smile was surprisingly shy, for one who'd shown no inclination to timidity in meeting the many on-duty guards of Imladris. "But you'll want to get back to your writing, I imagine."

"It isn't urgent," Glorfindel said instantly, still hoping the prince would forget his writing entirely if he made it sound unimportant enough. The prince's smile relaxed and widened; only then did he realise he'd practically extended an invitation, intentional or no. Was there a polite way to correct himself?

Perhaps, but it doubtless involved the disappearance of that smile.

Well, he couldn't say the elfling had been taxing company; quite the opposite, really, and he should probably be flattered that his limited conversation was deemed preferable to the twins' play. He supposed it would not be such a terrible thing to spend the evening in company, if it pleased the young prince. "Let us finish our errand, and we'll find a way in without being noticed. Do you play Estolad?" He seemed to recall a nice Estolad set Elrond had given him years back, still in a drawer, used precisely once.

The smile stayed. "I never have. Maybe you could teach me?"

It had been some time, but Glorfindel imagined the rules would come back to him as he went. "Yes, I think I could."


End file.
